Precipice
by SomewhereApart
Summary: A fill for this prompt: Regina has a hard time being vunerable and giving up control, truly letting go. Reunited with Robin, this is especially true. To the point that when they make love, she can't quite let go and find release. Close, but never willing to fully let go because she still doesn't fully trust that this is permanent. Rather than disappoint, she fakes it. Robin eventua


_**Author's Note:**__ A thousand thank-yous to Emily31594, for helping me drag this one kicking and screaming into the world. Without you, it would've sucked quite a lot._

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><p>Regina Mills can add up on one hand the number of men who've brought her to orgasm – and still have fingers left to count on. Several, in fact. For all her understanding of sex and its uses, its incredible value as a tool to manipulate and entice, it has never served <em>her<em> all that well. It's not that all the men she's been with have been bumbling fools in the bedroom, it's just that, well, that moment - the moment of release - the moment when your muscles go liquid and pleasure swamps you and sounds spill out of you that are unbridled and base - it's incredibly, terribly _intimate_. And intimacy has been in short supply her whole life.

She'd been intimate with Daniel - more intimate than anyone, ever, in her life. He hadn't taken her virginity - he'd been too noble for that, and she not quite daring enough to defy her mother to that extent (Cora would have found out, somehow, Regina was sure of it) – but they had stolen moments when they could, warm kisses and soft touches, and exactly twice Daniel's hands had wandered down into places so thrillingly forbidden. He'd touched and stroked, rubbed her through the fabric of her riding pants until she was trembling and gasping, making sounds that were unladylike and uncouth and embarrassing even as she was rocked by tremors of thrilling pleasure. But whether or not she was ladylike was never of concern for Daniel – his only concern was that she was happy and his, completely, and he'd whispered as such to her as he brought her to those dazzling peaks of pleasure, told her she was so beautiful, to let go, to give herself over to him, to be his.

And she had, fully, more so than she ever would with any man she bothered to share her body with, all her shame melting away. She'd told him with trembling breath that she was his, completely, always, and she's wondered a time or two since then if she'd cast some sort of True Love's magic on herself with the words, if she'd rendered herself unable to reach that pinnacle of intimacy and bliss with anyone other than her Daniel.

Leopold had been the next in line, and she'd been so weighted with grief and anxiety and devotion to her lost love that orgasm had been unthinkable at first. Sex had been uncomfortable at best, painful at worst, and Leopold hadn't been terribly giving. He'd reassured her, time and again, that it would get better as she got used to it, that it would get better once she was able to relax more, and Regina might have thought bitterly that it would be better if he'd spent a little more time on her pleasure if she hadn't been so thoroughly repulsed by every minute she had to spend in his bed.

Still, he hadn't been entirely wrong. After some time had passed, after she'd been assured that she'd lost Daniel for good, and Leopold had become less of a stranger to her, she had forced herself to admit that the sex wasn't always wholly unpleasant. That was as high as her compliments went, though - not wholly unpleasant. Sometimes, when he took a bit more time with her, when she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the way he was sucking at her nipples (tried to block out the scratch of his beard against the soft skin of her breast) or stroking between her thighs (he always smelled of incense, she remembers, cloying and thick and choking; she hated it, it made it hard to imagine she was somewhere else), when he didn't kiss her too terribly much, it could even feel… nice. Of course, those times, the attentive times, were usually the times he'd mutter _Eva_ into her skin, and her blood would go cold, her arousal fizzling out. Somehow standing in for a long-dead corpse didn't exactly leave her feeling open to intimacy.

Imagine that.

So no, Leopold had never given her an orgasm, not a single one. Every trembling crest of pleasure she'd found between marriage and murder had been at her own hand, in her own bedchambers, with thoughts of Daniel and the smell of hay and the soft winking lights of Firefly Hill.

She'd been determined with the Hunstman. She was powerful now, she was free, and he would bend to her will, and pitch her over into riotous pleasure, and it would not be dulled by feelings of regret, or loss, or thoughts of another. He would be _hers_. But then he'd looked at her that first day, after she'd ordered him to her bedchambers, and she'd seen something of herself in him. A determination to stand against the confines of magic, even if the fall was inevitable, to retain himself despite the circumstances bearing down on him, and she hadn't been able to **take**. Hadn't had it in her, not quite. Not yet.

The Huntsman was the first time she'd truly used sex as a bartering tool. A simple trade had been offered: she would uphold her end of their deal, so long as she was kept well-satisfied. He could take it or leave it, but either way he was doomed to servitude in her castle. He'd taken the deal, she'd outlawed the hunting of wolves, and he had lapped and licked and touched and pleased, and done his best (and his best was quite good, far better than anything her husband had ever done) to bring her to peak, but he'd failed. She'd known it wasn't him, known it couldn't possibly have been (he'd been trying for what felt like hours, and she'd been so close, so often, before it slipped away with a pang of anxiety she couldn't explain). Her sanity hadn't been so far gone yet that she'd placed blame on him for what she was rapidly coming to see as the shortcomings of her own body.

They'd made it work, eventually - he would please her until she was sweaty and shaking, just on the brink, and then she'd dismiss him and bring trembling fingers down between her thighs, finishing herself off in private. And then one day, he'd displeased her, and she'd summoned him to pay penance between her thighs. He liked to look at her - she'd learned that much. He may have despised her down to her core, but he liked her body, liked her curves, liked to watch her take the pleasure he so skillfully rained down upon her. So she'd blindfolded him, left him sightless, and that time when she'd skittered close to the edge, the pleasure hadn't evaded her as usual, hadn't slipped through her fingers like water. It had shimmered up her spine, had exploded like little popping lights, had gripped and shook her, and she'd come with his tongue between her thighs and a startled cry on her lips.

Emboldened by his small victory, he'd added three thumping fingers to his insistent tongue and had her dragging her sheets over her face and biting down to keep from crying out as she came again, her body feeling vibrant and alive. She'd pushed at him then, slipped off the edge of the bed to kneel in front of him, turning her back to him and maneuvering clumsily until he was pushing into her, fucking her from behind, her face buried in the bedding to muffle herself when she came a _third_ time minutes later.

It wasn't her, she'd realized.

It was _them_.

It was what they would see in her, what they would take, what she would be giving them by coming apart in their arms. It was that they were undeserving, not that she was unable.

Until Robin, Graham had been the only one since Daniel to push her over the edge (not the only one she'd let between her thighs, but the others had mostly been tactical maneuvers, persuasions, manipulations. Her pleasure hadn't been the goal; she'd had her Huntsman for that). And even Graham was unreliable, at least until after the curse hit. He couldn't be watching her, couldn't be looking her in the eye, she'd had to muffle herself, hide her face from him. She didn't want him to see what he did to her, she just wanted the release, the contact, her intimate secrets locked away inside someone she could silence and control with just an agonizing squeeze of her fingers around his plucked heart.

Things had been different in Storybrooke - she'd just been Regina, and he'd just been Graham, and she hadn't loved him, not really, but she'd been fond, and so had he. There'd been affection there underneath the lust, and she'd felt less embarrassed by the highs he brought her to. Felt less stripped bare when she straddled him and rode herself to orgasm, head tipped back, crying out freely, not giving much of a damn if he heard how good he made her feel. But no matter how free she felt here, in this place, with him, she could never get there if he was watching her face. If he was too close, if he pressed his forehead to hers while he pumped in and out of her. He could rile her up to the brink, but she'd feel that same niggling anxiety, that same roadblock to pleasure that she'd been plagued with for years.

And then, there had been Robin. Robin, that one and only time, in front of the fire. Her Robin, her wonderful, kind, understanding Robin, her soulmate, who had looked right through to the core of her and wanted to see even more. She'd come alight for him, had gone up in flames. He had watched her carefully, the way he always did, learning her body, learning what made her shiver and moan and arch, and he'd maneuvered her whims as he always had, urged her softly just the way Daniel always had, and Regina had come easily, and come freely, again and again, uncaring that he heard, uncaring that he saw. He was _hers_, and they were intimate even in quiet conversation. Giving herself over to him, fully, giving him that vulnerable, open moment of release had been easy, and she had reveled in every tremor and every desperate moan.

But that was months ago, and between then and now, everything had crashed and burned between them. Her moment of perfect openness turned to ash, the memory of his kisses on her skin like scorched earth. They've found their way back to each other, his marriage has ended, and Regina doesn't feel like a second choice, not really, not quite. But she doesn't feel the way she did that night in front of the fire either, and no matter how much she tells herself she's forgiven, no matter how much she tells herself she trusts, her body betrays her.

She flickers, but does not flame.

He has his head between her thighs, is giving her quick delicate licks, the ones that had her toes curling into the rug that day, had her shaking and hissing and bucking her hips closer as she came. And it is still toe-curlingly ecstatic, is still making her hiss and moan and tremble, but as she approaches that peak, she feels that hot, slick shame in her belly again and slips back away from it. Suddenly, all she can see is the way he'd left her. Is him walking with Marian and Roland, a perfect happy family getting ice cream on a warm-ish day, and she swallows heavily and trembles for another reason entirely. She glances down and he is watching her as best he can. She finds she wishes he wouldn't. He always sees too much, now, and she wants to enjoy this, wants to enjoy him.

It will be better once he's inside her, she tells herself, reaching down to tug at his hair, to urge him up. "Inside," she hisses, and when he hesitates for a moment, not finished yet with his task, she adds, "I want to come with you inside me."

That he's amenable to, smirking before dripping soft, nipping kisses up her belly, drawing one of her knees up along their sides as he leans in to kiss her mouth deeply, his erection bumping against where she's warm and wet and still slick with his spit. She feels another sharp lance of anxiety, and it perplexes her, worries her. Robin is _hers_, and she is _his_, and she has him back, and he will make her light up, she will give herself to him, all of him, she trusts - she can trust him, he's told her again and again how wrong he was to ever think he could survive apart from her.

But when he looks her in the eye, she remembers his eyes in the moment he learned she'd been the one to destroy his family, and she feels guilt, sharp and twisting. She loves him, loves him, but there is still so much bad blood between them, so much of her own darkness painted over their skin, and even though he has never, not once, held it against her, she cannot shake it. She cannot shake his eyes, the pinched pain, the carefully chosen words he'd used to let her down gently but let her down nonetheless, they've haunted her for months, and a part of her thinks maybe they should have waited. Maybe they shouldn't be having sex, not yet, not now, but the rest of her, all the other parts, her seeking heart, and her lonely skin, they demand she follow through with this. They tell her it will heal her, it will close the rift between them, so Regina winds her legs around his waist and presses him closer to her.

He's inside her a moment later, sinking in with a groan, and for the first time since the last time, something inside Regina clicks into place. Something that has felt raw and jagged, an edge she cannot smooth, it locks with him like pieces of a puzzle, and she thinks maybe it's her soul finding his again. She thinks it feels something like home.

But it's not enough.

He starts to move, and it is wonderful, ecstatic, pleasure coursing through her with every push, pride blooming in her belly with every groan he lets free into the crook of her neck. He murmurs that he missed her, that he needs her, that he loves her so, so much. And she rises, rises, approaches the edge, gasping, moaning, and Robin lifts his head to watch her spill over - but she doesn't.

She hovers on the edge, wincing with pleasure, hears his voice softly urging her and feels that pang again. Hot, slick anxiety, pulling in her belly, yanking away her release. Hears _my feelings for you are real_ and _but..._, _I'm in love with someone else_ and _but..._, and wonders when it will become _I thought I could end my marriage and live with it, but…_ Tells herself to stop, to feel, to enjoy, to trust him, but she did that once and it ended horribly, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against a well of icy, gripping fear that he will do so again.

Robin is oblivious, just dips his head to kiss her, tongues tangling, pleasure percolating inside her again, then abating back, and his brow is sweaty against hers.

She wants this, needs this, thinks maybe this just isn't the way, and gasps against his mouth, "Stop." He does, of course, and she tries not to stutter dumbly as she tells him, "Can we switch - can we do this, um, from behind?" before she kisses his lips one more time. She can do this, just not if she has to look him in the eye, not if he can see every desperate emotion she's struggling with.

"Behind?" he asks, and she realizes now she'll have to come up with some sort of excuse. She busies her mouth with the skin over his beating pulse, distracting him for a moment.

And then, "It's been a long day," she whispers to him. "Stressful. It can be, um… It can be difficult for me to… arrive. Like this."

"Ah," he says knowingly, fingers trailing through the hair near her temple.

"It's a, uh… fairly reliable position," she explains, and he nods, and kisses her again, and then moves back, away, letting her situate herself. She shifts to the side of the mattress, bends herself over it and he stands behind her, rubs warm palms along her hips and then guides himself to her.

He slides into her again, gives a few thrusts that make her thighs tremble, then asks, "Better, my love?"

She nods, because it is, and she vows to focus on the pleasure, just the pleasure, nothing else, nothing more, not what happened between them, not the doubts that still plague her. Just the pleasure of him in her, steady and strong, his hands on her hips.

She wonders if he's thinking of Marian, if he imagines her while Regina is naked before him. Then she banishes the thought.

Only pleasure. Just the pleasure. Just the way he's making her gasp again, making goosebumps rise on her skin.

It is good, it is solid, it is a steady, building thing again. Higher and higher, and Regina wedges a hand down between her own thighs, between her body and the mattress, finds her clit and rubs and whines at the pleasure. He urges her on, bids her to press harder, rub faster, and picks up his pace just a little. Regina burns, and burns, cries out and shakes, toes curling against the carpet, approaching that edge again, every thrust into her echoing up and out and she feels it then, the edge of release, sharp and sweet and oh, so close, and then he murmurs, "So beautiful, let go for me, love," and it all flickers out again. Fades away, that edge, she cannot let go, she can't.

She can't, she can't, not with him, not like this, and it is heartbreaking. She feels tears in her eyes, hot and angry, and grits her teeth. Her body won't let go. Her heart may be trying to, but her body will not allow him this, it won't, and as he grasps almost desperately at her hips, and gasps, and coaxes, she knows she's is far, far from the release he is so quickly barreling toward. Knows with a curl of dread that she will not reach it at all, and he is considerate enough that he will try to bring her there in some other way if he finishes first. He won't let her go unsatisfied.

So she does what she has never done, and fakes it. She tips her hips back against him at a slightly different angle, then clutches the sheets with a heady gasp, and Robin follows her cue, false as it is, gripping her hips to keep them just as they are and pounding, pounding, pounding into her. She moans and moans, gasps, and scrabbles her fingers over the sheets, then she pushes back hard against him, lets her hips lurch in his grasp and squeezes rhythmically around him, crying out. All of it fake, all of it feeling like deception and failure, but she cannot admit to him that their intimacy has faltered, that he has scarred a part of her she doesn't know how to make right. He comes only moments later with a relieved groan, and Regina tries to school her face into something more blissfully sated than desperately heartbroken before they both climb the rest of the way onto the bed and under the covers.

"I've missed you so much," he tells her, and she thinks darkly, _Then maybe you shouldn't have left me,_ but says only that she missed him, too. She's still warm and wet between the thighs, slick and slippery with his come, but unsatisfied. And she won't be, not tonight. With a sinking feeling, she thinks of all the times Graham wasn't able to bring her to peak, and knows Robin will not shrug it off the way her Huntsman had. She'll either have to tell him, or keep up the ruse.

But maybe it won't be necessary, maybe today is just a fluke. Maybe she's just tired, and rattled. Maybe they just need more time. The orgasms will return, in time.

But days turn into weeks, and her heart is still aching, breaking, still pinching and squeezing in her chest. She's been able to hide from him, been able to smile in the daytime and fake her pleasure convincingly at night, eight whole times now, she's gotten away with giving up on her own orgasm. But tonight is number nine, and he is between her thighs again, licking, sucking, scraping his teeth oh-so-gently over her clit, fingers inside her, two, then three, slow, then quick, and she's begun to feel defeated and resigned. Her hips are bucking encouragingly, her mouth hissing praise and encouragement, but she has no illusions that she'll reach her peak. She tries, sure, closes her eyes, tells herself to focus on the pleasure – that's what she always tells herself. To focus on the feeling, just the feeling, only the pleasure. She pep talks herself through the whole experience, hoping it will keep her from thinking of all the ways he crushed her heart without meaning to, and yet all it does is make her feel even more disconnected from him, from them, and tonight it is clawing at her chest, panic and pain and failure, and this isn't working. They're supposed to be soulmates, he's supposed to be hers, and this isn't _working_.

She's not sure if she can fake it today, not sure if she can bring herself to. But she doesn't have to.

She doesn't have to, because Robin stops suddenly, fingers stilling inside her, brow pressed to her belly, mouth puffing soft breaths against her skin but nothing more.

She croaks his name, questioning, and then his fingers slip out and he's crawling up the bed, peering down at her with an expression of pained concern, and she knows that somehow he knows. He's figured her out.

"Regina," he says in that way that only he can, "My love… What's wrong?"

She tries to tell him that nothing is wrong, tries to make excuses, but the tears are already welling in her eyes, already choking thickly in her throat, and all she manages is a high noise of misery before he looks at her with a confused mix of sympathy and guilt, gathering her into his arms and holding her close.

He murmurs into her hair that he knows she's been pretending, that he hadn't wanted to draw attention to it, but they can't go on like this. He loves her, he wants her to have her pleasure, what isn't working, how can he help?

For ten solid minutes, all Regina can manage are desolate, choking sobs, her throat too tight to speak. And then the words begin to tumble, quick and rambling, her voice thick with tears. She tells him every awful thing he's done to her, every agonizing thing he's made her feel, and that she's trying, she's trying to be with him like this but she just can't, she can't, she can't let go. Even if he did it for the right reasons, even if she understands, even if she trusts him, she can't get herself to let go. How can she let go if he might just walk away again, if he'll leave her feeling desperate and alone?

How can she give him all of her after what he _did?_

By the time she finishes, they're both in tears, and he's dripping apologies, telling her he's sorry, so sorry, he was so wrong, so misguided, it should always have been her. He tells her he won't leave her alone, that she needn't fear that, that even after everything that's happened between them he wants her to know she can trust him with her heart, her body, with every bit of her, even if it doesn't feel that way yet. He doesn't plead forgiveness, doesn't ask to be absolved. Just strokes her hair, her neck, her shoulders, pets apologies onto her skin.

Eventually, they fall silent, still pressed together, still naked, emotions stripped as bare as their skin. At some point, Robin has the wherewithal to pull the covers over their bare bodies. For long minutes they lie there, his fingers tracing patterns along her bicep, her mindly oddly blank now that it's been poured out for him. The riotous cacophony of her every secret fear voiced and then silenced.

She stares at the wall, at the shadows there, painted with moonlight. Listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She's not sure when she falls asleep, but she wakes with him spooned against her in the morning, warm and inviting, and half-hard for her even in sleep. She bites her lip, and squirms out of his grasp, retreating to the shower. After the night before, she's not sure she's ready to try again so soon.

She needn't have worried, though, because Robin doesn't try. He's in the kitchen making coffee when she comes down in her robe, and he kisses her warmly, but doesn't do anything else. For the next two weeks, he doesn't do anything else. Nothing but soft kisses, and sweet touches, and long hours of conversation. He doesn't push, and she doesn't try, and they don't talk about it, not really.

Not until the night those soft kisses go hot and tongue-filled again, a night when Henry is at Emma's, Roland with Marian, when they have all the time in the world. They're in bed again - it was supposed to be a kiss goodnight, or bedtime kiss, anyway - they'd both had books out and propped open, neither done reading yet when she'd leaned over to buss his lips. Before long, the books are shoved aside, his hands in her hair, hers pushing beneath his shirt, heat stealing between her thighs again.

She wants this. She _needs_ this.

Regina climbs onto his lap, barely breaks the kiss as she moves to straddle him, grinding down against the erection she can plainly feel. Robin pushes back into the motion and groans, low in his throat, his fingers tightening in her hair, against her hip. She breaks the kiss long enough to mutter, "I want…" against his lips, and he nods and she's kissing him again.

Pajamas come off, hers button-by-button until she's bare to the waist, his shirt yanked up and off in one clean motion. And then his lips are on her breast, his tongue against her nipple, and she gasps, feels the slick, hot slide of herself against the cotton of her underwear, over the hardness of him between her thighs.

One hand steals down into the back of her pajama bottoms, cupping her rear, squeezing, grinding her more firmly against him, and she feels her thighs tremble, feels everything throb, feels jittery nerves in her belly.

The familiar mantra kicks up: focus on the pleasure, focus on the feeling…

No, she tells herself. Focus on him, on them, on…

The anxiety in her gut twists harder.

She breaks their kisses with a sigh, sits back slightly, and he looks at her with dazed eyes, then slowly growing clarity.

"I'm sorry, I–"

He shakes his head. "No, it's alright," he insists. "Whatever you want."

"No, I _want_ to, I just…" She looks down between them, shaking her head. Her nipple is glossy with spit, hardened and sensitive, and he's still tenting his pajama bottoms.

"You just what?" Robin coaxes gently.

Regina blows out a breath, and admits, "Now there's pressure."

"Pressure?"

"To… get there," she manages, tucking her hair behind her ear self-consciously, glancing up at him through her lashes. Embarrassed, and then embarrassed that she's embarrassed. "I feel like if it doesn't happen this time, then something is… wrong with me?" she finishes with a grimace, a scrunched brow. "I should never have said anything, I should have just-"

"No," Robin disagrees, cutting her off. "No, this is ours to work through, not yours."

"It feels like it's mine," she whispers, looking down again.

But Robin is Robin, and ever patient, and so he simply lifts his fingers into her hair and smoothes it back behind her ears himself, uses those same hands to tip her head up to meet his eyes. "It's not. And there's no pressure," he assures. "Don't think about reaching that peak, just enjoy the moment."

"I've tried that," she whispers. "It didn't help. I can't just trick myself into–"

"No tricks," he insists, drawing her closer, urging her back in until they're flush. "When we were together before, when it wasn't working for you, did it still feel good? Even if you weren't able to come, did you feel pleasure?"

"Yes," she admits, because she had, so much pleasure, even in the midst of so much anxiety and pain.

"That's all I want, then. To bring you pleasure," he tells her softly, palms coasting up and down her bare back. "I want you to be able to trust me again, to be able to let me in and let go. But more than that, more than anything, I want to make you feel good, and to be close to you. Perhaps for a while, let's just let that be what this is. I've caused you enough pain; let me give you pleasure - with no expectations of where it might lead. Just pleasure for its own sake, hmm?"

Regina frowns, repeats doubtfully, "For it's own sake."

"I enjoy being with you like this - skin to skin, touching you, kissing you. Being close with you in a way reserved only for the two of us. It's not just about the end result for me, Regina, I enjoy every moment I'm with you." He's never looked more honest, more loving. "Climax will happen when it happens, perhaps once I've had a bit more time to regain your trust. Until then, I'd very much like to please you, in whatever way I can."

"I do trust you," she whispers, because she does, she always has, she trusts him more than most people. "More than almost anyone."

"But you're still frightened," he says gently, and she feels intensely uncomfortable about this whole thing. Because, yes, she is, but she cannot figure out why, or how to fix it.

She exhales shakily and admits, "I can't seem to stop it. I don't know why I can't - why I can't just do this, this is ridiculous, it's just sex, it's just – and it's _you_, and I know you love me. I don't know why I can't get past all this."

"That's alright," he soothes. "I took rather poor care of your heart when it was given to me, milady, I can't expect everything to be right as rain the moment we reunited. We'll work through it together, hmm? But for now..."

Regina nods, takes a deep breath, and tells him, "It's easier for me, if… if you can't – if you're not –" She lets out a frustrated growl, raking her fingers up into her hair and fisting them there, squeezing her eyes shut. She is not this person. Not this shy, stuttering person. Why can't she just talk to him? How is it that as soon as they get naked, she clams up? She sucks in a breath, lets it out, keeps her eyes shut and her voice even as she makes her request: "Can we do this from behind? It's better for me when," she swallows anxiously, "When you can't see me, when I can't–"

His hands are on her elbows then, drawing them down, drawing her arms back between them as he denies her, "No. No, milady, I won't do that. Not if you're doing it to hide your face from me; I want you with me."

She opens her eyes, frustrated, face pinched in annoyance, "But I can't-"

"That's okay," he soothes, so gentle and so kind, and she feels like he's placating even though she knows he's not.

"It's not okay!" she blurts, feeling her cheeks burn red. "Maybe it's okay with you, but it's not okay with me. I have spent my whole life like this," she admits, her voice breaking. "I have spent _years_ without being able to–to–and then _you_, you changed all that, it was so easy the first time, everything was so easy, and now… It's not okay, Robin. It's not okay with me."

"For tonight, let it be okay," he urges, and his gentleness is grating on her now. She wants him to get angry, wants him to step up to the plate with her and fight back, to fight her, to fight _for_ her.

"And after tonight?" she challenges, tipping her chin up. "Tonight, you're fine with it, but what if this never gets better? You won't be okay with this next week, next month, next _year_. Men have their pride, and you won't be able to live with–"

"I'll determine what I can and cannot live with," he tells her, voice firming for just a moment, and good, she likes that, she likes the fight in him. But he gentles again to tell her, "I love you. And I will be fine for as long as it takes, Regina. Please, my love, stop worrying so much about this." He places her hand over his heart, his own pressing atop hers. "Just be with me. _With_ me. Here. Tonight."

She wants to believe him, wants desperately to believe that this will get better. So she gives in.

"No pressure?" she questions again, and he nods, draws her lips in close again, repeating her words just before their lips meet.

It's easier after that, the anxiety fading to the background. It's about pleasure, she tells herself, and closeness. About his tongue against her collar, his thumb rubbing teasingly between her thighs. Skin on skin. Hip to hip. Not orgasm, but pleasure. Before long, he has her quaking with it, his cock buried in her to the hilt, hands grasping at her back, her shoulders, her breasts, his fingers tugging and twisting at her nipple as he moans her name, close to coming. She's riding him just a hair faster than could be considered a lazy pace, skittering around the edge of orgasm herself, but never quite able to get there. Every time she gets close, she tenses, anticipating, and then it fades away. She tells herself to push the frustration back with it. Tells herself to enjoy the way she feels and not seek the release of the tension in her belly. To savor that tension. To drink in every kiss, every touch, every slick slide of him in and out between her thighs. To find the intimacy where she can, even if she can't quite hold on to it.

And she watches him, watches as he riles up further and further, watches his chest move as he pants, watches his fingers clutch at her breast, watches his face screw up with effort as he moans her name, needy, anxious himself now.

This time she's the one urging _him_ to let go, whispering it into the air between them, and then he's bucking up into her, face twisted with ecstasy.

Regina is only a little envious of his release as she climbs off him and settles on the mattress beside him, trying to get her own breathing under control, trying to tell her body to settle down. For once, she doesn't feel shame. Could do with a little less tension between her thighs, but doesn't feel embarrassed at her lack of orgasm. So that's something. This is better than before, at least. For tonight, it really is okay.

And then Robin is pressed against her side, his hand skimming down to rub over her sex, and he asks her, "Have you had enough?"

She frowns, feels a little lick of shame after all. "I-I dont think I'm going to – have a –"

"That's not what I asked," he interrupts gently, fingers finding her clit and rubbing it in slow, firm circles that have her breath catching. "I asked if you've had enough, or if you'd like more pleasure?"

"Oh," she sighs, lashes fluttering, and then his hand slips down further, his fingers filling her, curling, pressing against a spot inside her that makes her jaw drop open, her back arch. "More…"

His voice is a low rumble in her ear when he says, "Tell me when you've had enough."

She doesn't say when until he's driven her half-mad with bliss, his fingers keeping her on the brink of orgasm, that last sliver of doubt and mistrust keeping her from toppling over it. The pleasure is exquisite, though, and he showers her with words, with compliments, with affection. By the time she stops him, pushing at his hands, squeezing her thighs shut and then dropping them open again because even that is too much, too much, she is quaking, her breath heaving. Robin steadies a hand over her racing heart and talks her gently back down.

She may feel achy and pent up, vibrating and coiled tight, but she also feels loved. Cherished, even. Lavished with affection in a way that only Robin seems to deem her worthy of, and for that, at least, she is grateful.

For a while, they go on like this. They stop seeking orgasm, and start seeking pleasure, focusing on enjoying each other at every turn instead of pushing each other relentlessly toward release. Every time, she gets close and can't reach. Not even after, when he's finished and turns his attention on her, lavishes as much sensation onto her willing body as she can stand. She minds the absence of orgasm less and less, starts ducking away to the bathroom afterward to finish herself off from time to time, when the feeling is too much to simply let it fade away. It's never quite the explosive finale she knows it can be, but it's enough having her gasping and shuddering, enough to break the tension. Robin doesn't comment, doesn't even look at her with contempt. Just welcomes her back into bed with open arms and warm kisses. Tells her he loves her.

They've been back together for months, intimate in every way one can be, and still her body fights him.

And then one night it's not just her body fighting, but all of her. Tensions boil over, her temper short that day, and his patience thin, and something small and insignificant becomes large and unavoidable. Sparks a spat into an argument, until they are shouting in her kitchen, ugly words and snarling faces. Robin walks out. Frustrated and angry, and not wanting to inflict any more verbal pain or suffer any more of her spiny barbs, he blows by her and walks straight out the back door. Regina's chest floods with panic, with pain, with dread. She knew, she knew he'd do this. Knew one day she'd become too much for him, and he'd leave.

She sinks onto one of the kitchen stools, elbows on the countertop, eyes against her palms, and weeps.

When he returns an hour later, she's still sitting there, tears spent now, itchy between her cheeks and her hands. She's breathing steadily, in and out, feeling increasingly numb and defeated. Beginning to wish she'd never taken a chance on him in the first place, because loving her soulmate has lead to little more than crushing pain, made all that much worse by the moments when they are close, and loving, and feel oh-so-right together.

He finds her there in the kitchen, reaches for her arm, and she startles, looks up at him, bewildered. "I…" She blinks, blinks again. "I thought you left."

"I never left the yard," he tells her gently, his anger all burned away, too. "I just needed to walk away before we let the argument burn the house down around us."

He's drawing her closer, into his arms, and she goes, leans her head into his shoulder, and admits, "I thought you were gone. I thought-"

Robin tips her chin up, cups her jaw in his warm hands, and looks her straight in the eyes.

"I've told you, I won't leave you, Regina." His thumbs coast her cheekbones, back and forth. "I might need a bit of air every now and then, but I'll always come home. To you. You're where my honor lies now. I'm yours, completely. From now until the day I die, I'm yours." He's imploring her to believe him, to finally trust this, trust him, trust them. His eyes so full of turmoil, and love, and helplessness. "And if I thought you were ready, I'd be on one knee right now, asking for your hand. But I don't think you're there yet, I don't think **we** are. I don't want your hand out of fear, Regina, but I promise you - I _vow_ to you, that I'm not leaving. What can I do to make you trust that?"

She shakes her head, at a loss, wishing she could force her heart, could rip it out and whisper to it and make it obey her like she has so many countless others. "Just keep coming back to me," she whispers to him, and he nods, swears _Always_, and kisses her again.

She picks fights. Little ones, big ones. Self-sabotages for nearly month, testing him, testing them. In the end, he asks her to please stop. "I know what you're doing," he says. "And I think I've more than proven I'm not leaving. But this has to stop."

She feels ridiculous. Out of control, out of herself. She makes an appointment with Archie, then another, more, goes in secret at first, and then tells Robin, and he asks if she wants him to go with her, but she tells him no. It's easier to sort through this on her own. And it does get easier, with perspective, with time. She has something to lose now, and so much to gain, so she really, really tries to work with Archie. Even if she threatens him with painful death, or the removal of his heart to her control, should he ever even think of betraying her confidence. Archie smiles, calls them empty threats, but reminds her again that he's bound to doctor-patient confidentiality and intends to uphold it.

Therapy helps. Robin's steadfast refusal to let her destroy them helps even more. They make a pact of honesty, to strive to always, whenever possible, be upfront about how they're feeling about every single thing. It's a struggle for her, at first, because hiding her truths has always been a way for her to protect herself, and the ease with which he lays all of his own bare before her makes her feel stilted and stuck. But she adjusts, and in time, the honesty is freeing. They grow closer, feel more deeply, trust more fully. He's no longer just her soul mate, but her partner, her other half.

It's been almost a year, and she's yet to climax in his arms, but they have their own parameters of normalcy, and Regina is happy. Really, truly happy. It tickles at the back of her brain now and again - if they have this, this deep trust, this intimacy, why does she still feel that tremor that pulls her from the brink whenever she gives her body over to him? Her frustration comes, and it goes. They have good weeks, and bad. Good nights, and bad.

Then, one night, she suggests a bath for the two of them. She has a giant tub in the master bathroom, certainly big enough for two. The room is candlelit and serene, the tub filled with bubbles and steaming water, and their limbs slip and slide wetly as they get situated. Her back to his chest, her head tipped back onto his shoulder, eyes shut as his hands wander her skin lazily.

There's wine, red, but it goes largely untouched.

Between him and the water and the quiet, she feels cocooned. Shut away from the world, from everything, just the two of them here in this space. Fragrant bubbles, and soft touches, flickering darkness against her closed eyelids. She has the fleeting thought that she feels safe, safer than she has in year, decades, maybe ever. For the first time in a long time, she lets herself truly and fully relax, and feels like she's floating. Like she's outside herself, but fully present, somehow both at the same time.

"I love you," she breathes, the words spilling from her lips easily, as they have dozens of times before now.

"And I you," he whispers back in kind. "I quite like quiet nights like this."

"Mm," she agrees, exhaling and somehow managing to relax her body even more. There's a dull ache in her shoulder, though, and she rolls it slightly, tilts her head.

His hands skim her arms, stopping to knead her shoulders, her brow scrunching in pain as his thumb works finds a knot and works diligently at it, then smoothing as he rubs gently to soothe the bruised flesh. Then he strokes along her collar, coasts across her breasts, down to her belly, her sides. It's soothing, comforting, simply being touched, caressed this way.

"That feels nice," she murmurs, and he turns his head, kisses her temple, his fingers meandering back to her breasts, thumb coasting over nipples slippery with suds. "That too," she breathes, and she can feel his chuckle against her back.

He takes his time with her, keeps his touches languid and light, but he still manages to coax her into arousal. A simmering, low burn of a thing that has her warm and thrumming, squirming against him, moaning softly now and then. No expectations, just pleasure. Just his fingers plucking at her nipples until she arches her back into the touch, sliding between her thighs and playing over her clit lightly, gently, until she's whimpering and spreading her thighs wider for him, drinking in every drop of pleasure he can bestow upon her.

He's hard against her back when his fingers sink into her, his thumb still rubbing against her clit. As with everything tonight, the rhythm he sets is easy, steady, but it's enough to have her gripping the edge of the tub, biting her lip, grinding her head back into his shoulder with a moan.

She's revelling, enjoying the feel of his fingers inside her, against her, the feel of his skin slipsliding against her back, the feel of the water against her skin, and the bubbles fizzling out across her breasts. She rides that wave of pleasure up, up, sucking in a breath, expecting the wave to recede any moment now. Instead, she feels a sucker-punch of pleasure, cries out harshly in surprise as orgasm crashes over her, has her jerking in his hold, the water sloshing as she bucks, lurches, clenches around him.

She hears his voice in her ear, soft and soothing, pleased, "That's it, let it all go, you're so beautiful Regina, that's it, come for me, I love you so much, you're safe with me now, let it go…"

And she does, she does, she lets the pleasure rock through her, gives voice to it with eager, blissful shouts, drags her nails down his arm and leaves angry red trails as she writhes and huffs and quakes. When she finally relaxes back into his body, she turns, curls onto her side and presses her face into his neck, tears already clinging to her lashes. She is relieved, so relieved, her body wracked with something that is a combination of laughter and sobbing. Finally, finally…

Robin just rubs her back, and whispers reassuring words of comfort, presses kisses to the damp skin of her brow. Tips her chin up, and smiles down at her, then kisses her mouth. Regina's heart is pounding, her skin tingling, excitement and pride and relief fluttering in her chest, and she twists in his hold, moving onto her knees and kissing him harder, pressing his back into the tub, his head bumping against the wall, but she doesn't care, doesn't care. And neither does he, apparently, because he's giving back as good as he gets, tangling his fingers up into her hair and tugging her closer with it, moaning in the back of his throat, his other hand reaching for her thigh and urging her to lift it, to move it outside of his.

She fumbles to readjust them, her teeth tugging at his lower lip as she straddles his lap, grinds herself against his erection. She's going to have him, right now, going to take him _right now_, and nothing is going to hold her back this time. She reaches between them, finds him still hard and waiting, guiding him inside her with an eager moan.

Her head tips back, and she grips his shoulders with slippery hands, rocking her body on top of his. She feels the blunt, blooming pleasure in her belly, and is anxious for a whole new reason. His hands guide her hips, help her move, water splashing over the edges of the tub and onto the floor, but she doesn't care, doesn't care, because it's rising again, the sensation, the waves of pleasure. She brings her own hand down between them, moans at the feeling of her fingers and his cock, answers his tight, coaxing, "That's it…" with her own breathless, "Make me come again." And he does, he does, she spills over once more, crying out at the feeling of him inside her as she comes hard.

Her hands scrabble at the walls alongside the tub, her voice hoarse and desperate as she urges, "More! Don't st-op! More! I need-!" She braces her palms, shifts the angle of them, rides him harder, faster, and this time its his fingers between them, her eyes snapping open to lock on his, on his face, his tense, determined face as he fights to hold back for her, to keep from coming inside her as she starts to cry out again, again, wordless, revelatory, open-mouthed moans, and she's coming again, her back bowing, desperate, sobbing pleasure spilling from her lips. He can't hold back any longer then, burying himself deep and coming with her name on his lips.

When they finally still, she is panting and trembling, the tub half-empty and her bathroom floor soaked beyond hope.

Their eyes lock, hers wide and disbelieving, his warm and loving. "More?" she asks breathlessly, and he grins.

They stumble to bed, not even bothering to towel off, sheets damp beneath them, and it is electric, exultant. Tonight, it's no longer about pleasure, but peak, and he brings her up, up, up, over, over, over, with fingers and tongue, and his length inside her. Just to prove she can, they can. Regina falls asleep sweaty and sated and smiling.

That first orgasm breaks the dam, and from then on they flow freely. When she looks back, that is the night she thinks she put all the pain of their separation to rest. Let it swirl down the drain and flush out through the plumbing with the bath water, leaving only the peace and intimacy of their relationship behind.

She never doubts herself in his arms again, never doubts whether he will stay with her. Never doubts whether she can open herself to him, and never again feels that curl of anxiety that pulls her back from the edge. They're engaged within the month (she's the one who asks him, tells him she's not afraid anymore, not of anything, and deep down she feels she's earned the right to a marriage that's of her choosing and no one else's), and married by the end of the year, and Regina revels in the intimacy she thought had died with Daniel, and then again with Marian, and then again with her own traitorous heart. She has reclaimed it for herself, has fought hard, and won. Finally, after all these years, she has everything. Family, and love, and a quiet heart. It is not the "everything" she'd sought for so many years, it is nothing she ever imagined she could have, but she has it now. And it is blissful.


End file.
